


That's Where You'll Find Me

by Renea



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra, Protective Bucky Barnes, Skinny Steve Rogers, and then more hurt, angsty, irish insults, not the happy ending you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 10:04:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19129822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renea/pseuds/Renea
Summary: Steve Rogers never did know how to avoid a fight without Bucky there to keep him out of trouble. A short fic in which Steve says some things he shouldn’t and Bucky patches him up, longing for things he can never have.A story for the first week of the Stucky Fistposting Fanfic Challenge.This week's theme: Longing.желание-JRB





	That's Where You'll Find Me

_Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high_

_There's a land that I've heard of once in a lullaby._

_Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue_

_And the dreams that you dare to dream,_

_Really do come true._

 

Bucky was cold, freezing actually, and he burrowed deeper into his favorite blue coat to take what little warmth he could from it. His head was aching something fierce, but he was distracted from the pain by the sound of men’s voices arguing in a different language.

 

Instinctively, he moved a little quicker. Probably just some idiots causing trouble, no need to think Steve was involved.

 

Steve is _safe_ , he had to remind himself of that sometimes. The war was over. They’d won. He was back living in Brooklyn, with Steve, back in their old apartment. Steve had been offered a serum to make him big and strong so he could join the war effort, but he didn’t take it, instead staying back and helping the war effort in his own ways, organizing rubber drives and collecting food to be sent to the war widows. Bucky was back at his old job, working the docks. Steve was enrolled in art classes at the local college. They were, the both of them, completely safe.

 

He could make out words now, and it wasn’t a different language after all, just an unfamiliar cadence. He heard a gruff voice ask “Why don’t ya run on home, ya arse-worm? This aint none of your concern.”

 

A clear, deep voice responded, a voice he knew and loved, a voice far too deep for the small body it came from. Bucky’s blood ran cold. “It’s my concern when you’re out here thievin from little old ladies who can’t fight back—now hand over the bag and we’ll all go on our way!”

 

“God damnit Stevie,” he whispered to himself.

 

“Fuck off, ya shit for brains. The old bitch is a headcase anyhow, she don’t know the difference.”

 

“Oh no. Okay, Steve, they’re just words. Just back off now,” thought Bucky, breaking into a jog.

 

“That’s no way to talk about a lady! What, you got a padlock on your arse that you shit through your teeth?”

 

“GOD DAMNIT STEVE.” Bucky gritted his teeth and turned the corner just in time to see the biggest of the two men pull a few bills from the bag he was holding and stuff it into his pocket before casting the bag into a corner of the alleyway and rounding on Steve, who looked even smaller now by comparison.

 

“The fuck you just say to me, you piece of shit?” He rolled up his sleeves. “I’m gonna give you a lickin’ you won’t soon forget.”

 

Bucky moved forward to put a stop to the fight, but before he could open his mouth Steve had already stepped into the man’s space and was looking up at him, smirking dangerously like the smartass little punk he was.

“Yeah well if you lick me all over, you won’t miss my arse!” and then he took a swing and it landed right across the larger man’s face.

 

“Fuck!” Bucky leapt into the fray, pulling the large man off Steve and hurling him into the wall. The other man, smaller than his friend but still three times Steve’s size, had wrestled Steve to the ground and was punching him in the ribs over and over with one fist, while pressing his face down into the pavement with the other. The sound of flesh being scraped against asphalt was so loud and visceral, Bucky thought he could feel it himself. Prying the man off took some doing, and Bucky found himself facing down both men now, the largest having recovered himself and practically frothing at the mouth with rage. Steve was wheezing from his place on the ground below and the sound made Bucky afraid.

 

The fight really took off then. Bucky punched, Bucky got punched. One of the men lunged at Steve and Bucky shoved him so hard his head slammed into the edge of the metal dumpster. One down. A kick to the back of his knee took him down for a hard second which the largest man used to start kicking Steve, who now looked more like a half-empty sack of potatoes than a person. Bucky was up and on the guy before he knew it, spitting a mouthful of blood into his eyes and punching him over and over again until he was out.

 

Now, feeling nauseated, he made his way over to Steve. “God damnit, Stevie…” his hands shook as he reached for him, his senses assaulted by the earthy-copper scent of dried blood. “Just roll on over now, let me see you.” Blue eyes peered up at him and he took another rattling breath. “There y’are, Stevie, c’mon now we gotta get out of here…C’mon…”

 

“Bag—“ Steve began, twisting as if to reach for the bag that had been discarded on the ground. Bucky struggled to his feet and bent to retrieve the bag, moving over to the largest man and fishing the paltry bills from his pocket and stuffing them back into the purse. Pulling himself upright again, he gave the man another kick in the stomach just for good measure, before moving back over to Steve, who by now was struggling to his feet.

 

“Got it, Stevie, I got it. You know whose it was?”

 

Steve let Bucky pull his arm around his shoulders. Bucky winced as a pain shot through his own leg, a sensation like boiling water being pushed into his veins and burning up his insides. He shook his head. He’d focus on his own injuries later, right now he had to get Steve out of there.

 

“Mrs. Brann-gn,” said Steve. “Bas’rds took it.”

 

Well that made sense. Mrs. Brannigan was a tiny woman in her 70’s who had lived a few doors down from them. She used to call on Steve to help her carry in her shopping sometimes, or she’d come get Bucky when she needed furniture moved. She had sold baked bread at the market on Saturdays and always gave Steve a loaf or two to take home if there was any left at the end of the day. Her mind had been slipping the last few times Bucky had seen her and she frequently forgot whether she was coming or going. Steve, in particular, always made a point of keeping an eye out for her.

 

“Alright, Stevie, alright. We’ll just get back home and then I’ll get Mrs. Brannigan her bag back. Alright? Just gotta get back home first.”

 

-

_Someday I'll wish upon a star_

_And wake up where the clouds are far behind me._

_Where troubles melt like lemon drops,_

_Way above the chimney tops,_

_That's where you'll find me._

 

Steve was sitting at their tiny kitchen table, a dirty dishrag pressed to the cut on his ribs, while Bucky dug through their rapidly dwindling first aid supplies trying to find the needle and thread. Bucky had been relieved to find that Steve’s injuries were actually not too bad, just a few cuts and bruises on his face and one rather nasty slice across his ribs that Bucky insisted had to be tended. If he could just get his own hands to stop shaking long enough to find what he was looking for. It felt to him like their little apartment was no warmer inside than it had been outside.

 

Steve cleared his throat and Bucky’s head shot up. Shit. If Bucky was cold, Steve must be freezing, as small as he was. He’d catch cold and it would be all Bucky’s fault. God, get your head on, Barnes.

 

“Are you cold?” He leapt up to grab the blanket from off his bed. “What do you need? You need your cigarettes?”

 

“No, I—“ Bucky wrapped the blanket around him, roughly tucking it around Steve’s sharp shoulders which looked too small, too thin to be real.

 

“Don’t give me that. You were wheezing in the alley, Stevie, and I need to know if—“

 

“Bucky, I’m FINE. Just got the wind knocked out of me is all.”

 

“Yeah but if you—“

 

“I’m fine!”

 

Bucky huffed and started trying to thread the needle with shaky hands. “What were you doing picking fights with a coupla guys weigh ten of you anyhow?” His thread missed the needle’s eye. “You know you coulda been dead if I hadn’t showed up? What were you thinkin?”

 

“Buck—“

 

“Mrs. B said she didn’t even know the bag was gone, and there wasn’t but three dollars in it to start with, but o-ho! theeere’s Stevie, out there gettin his ass handed to him! And for what?”

 

“Aw, come off it Buck.” He grinned, a bright thing amongst the dried blood on his face, and took the needle and thread from Bucky’s hands. “Our personalities just clashed, that’s all. He’s a no good thievin’ grifter, and I hate no good thievin’ grifters.”

 

Bucky smiled despite himself as Steve successfully threaded the needle, tied it up, and handed it back to Bucky.

 

“What am I gonna do with you, Stevie?”

 

-

_Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly_

_Birds fly over the rainbow_

_Why then, oh why can't I?_

 

“You scare me, you know that?” Bucky said later. “You scare me to death. I’m afraid all the time.”

 

Steve gazed sadly at him.

 

“And sometimes I look at you and I think—well. It doesn’t matter what I think. But Stevie, you gotta take better care of yourself, alright? What if—what if something happened? What if I couldn’t be there for you?”

 

“You’re always there for me, Buck.”

 

Bucky started to respond but felt the nausea creeping back in. Without another word, he stumbled to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. Once. Twice. God, was there anything Bucky hated worse than puking? He didn’t think so. Steve was there though, softly rubbing his back and handing him a washcloth when it seemed the worst of it had passed. The washcloth felt rough against his skin though and he pulled away quickly to go lie back down.

 

Steve soon joined him, stretching his small form out on the bed beside him and laying on his side to face him.

 

“You gotta take care of yourself too, Buck.”

 

“I know, Stevie. I know.”

 

A knock on the door interrupted them and Steve jumped up to answer it, coming back a few minutes later grinning from ear to ear and holding the prettiest loaf of golden bread you ever saw.

 

“Mrs. B! She brought it by to say thanks for finding her bag. Ain’t that swell, Buck?”

 

“Sure is,” said Bucky.

 

-

 

Steve looked blissful as he bit into the small portion of bread he’d allowed himself. They wanted to make it last, since it wasn’t often they had fresh bread these days. Bucky couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten anything that smelled so good. He turned down his portion, at least for now, while he waited for the nausea to pass, but he insisted that Steve go on.

 

He wanted a cigarette, but he didn’t know where he’d laid them. Maybe they’d fallen out of his pocket in the alley? There wasn’t money just yet to buy a new pack but he’d be paid in a few days. Just have to stick it out til then.

 

Sometime in the last hour, it had begun to rain again. Usually they were well insulated, at least, in their little apartment on the third floor of this tenement building, but today the damp seemed to follow them in. Steve didn’t seem to notice, so enamored was he of his bread, and Bucky chose not to say anything for fear of breaking the spell.

 

It was a nice moment, he thought. A quiet one. Just two boys, safe and together, no war raging around them, plenty to eat, happy. Untouchable.

 

-

 

Later that night, resting in bed, he let himself look at Steve. Ordinarily at bedtime they’d lie to back-to-back, but right now Bucky needed to see him, to study his profile, to watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, so small but beating with what Bucky knew to be the heart of a lion. Steve was strong, a fighter. So much braver, so much better, than Bucky could ever be.

 

Bucky wiped away a tear and the movement made Steve stir. Always a light sleeper, his Stevie.

 

“Hey Buck.”

 

“Hey Stevie.”

 

“You’re crying,” said Steve, his voice like heartbreak.

 

Bucky lowered his eyes.

 

“Nah.” He tried for a light tone, but it just came out ragged and hurt.

 

“Buck. You _are_. You’re crying.”

 

Bucky didn’t say anything.

 

“I’m so sorry, Buck.”

 

Bucky felt sick.

 

He looked up frantically, searching for blue eyes meeting his in the darkness but they were nowhere to be found.

 

-

 

He’s crying. His face is wet. The pain is intense and someone is speaking to him.

 

It’s so cold.

 

Oh god.

 

“Are you with us, soldier?” the cruel voice asked.

 

Bucky struggled against his bonds, jostling the needles and trying to spit out the rubber bit they’d placed between his teeth. He looked around, wild eyed. Frightened. So afraid. Always so afraid.

 

“Ah yes, there you are!” said the falsely jovial voice. “Gone for a bit longer that time eh?”

 

The voice chuckled. Bucky cried harder.

 

Steve was just there. He’d just been there.

 

Take me back.

 

Let me go back to him.

 

“Unfortunately, we need you awake for this next part and,” he paused to lean in close and pat Bucky’s cheek in a mockery of comfort, “I’m afraid, it’s going to hurt.”

 

Somewhere in his periphery, light glinted off of silver metal. He remembered now.

 

Steve, impossibly large but growing smaller in the distance. Fear. Pain. So much pain. His arm. A newspaper shoved in his face, reporting the unthinkable.

 

Hopelessness.

 

Weakness.

 

Compliance.

 

The whirring sound of a spinning blade cut through his thoughts and all he knew was pain. It was in his blood, burning him from within. It was in his flesh, ripping away from muscle and bone, which was also pain. It was in his muffled screams.It was in his lungs, in every breath he took. It was in his memories. It was in sad blue eyes gazing into his, it was in delicate collarbones, in wheezing coughs, in bread that smelled too good to eat. It was in a deep, clear voice he’d never hear again and it was in the warmth of the body next to his, small and delicate or large and solid, whose absence he’d know forever even when he knew nothing else.

 

Pain was everything he was, and everything he’d ever have.

 

Pain was everything he knew.

 

Pain was everything.

 

Pain was.

 

Pain.

 

Steve.

 

_If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow_

_Why, oh why can't I?_


End file.
